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Karl Jak

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Face to Face
#06 Ashe-0 & #07 Roy Mustang Malloki vs #11 Sigmund Vrell & #15 Cho

The pair had been on a bad run of luck as of late, and it appeared that the odds were not yet in their favor.

Despite his earlier coyness at the prospect of being on the island, Cho knew what to do when the fists started flying. He drew the nailgun and pulled back on the firing mechanism, scattering Ashe-0 and Roy Mustang. Sigmund gave chance to the towering, elf-eared cyclops while his associate pursued the smaller man in the tattered uniform.

Roy, body aching from bruises and burns accumulated over a span of a few too many run-ins with their competition, found himself stumbling to keep his balance. In his mind, he knew the only reason he’d managed all these fights without a weapon was because of his training, and if that was the case, how in the hell were lesser trained people surviving out there?

Usually one to prefer the back of combat, Cho knew this was the time where he should press the advantage, especially since he was supporting the High Priest of Neo New Babylon. “You shouldn’t run away!” The young man shouted as he paused and threw out a hand. In front of Roy Mustang, the ground erupted upward—a jagged column of earth and stone.

“It wasn’t a retreat,” Roy sighed as he hung his shoulders. “…just a diversion!” The alchemist spun around and released the closest thing to fire alchemy that he could muster on the island.

A very bright flash from the iPhone’s triple cameras.

The burst of light in the nearly dark sky was enough to blind Cho, who had learned enough to instinctively yank back on the trigger of the nailgun. Having hoped for more time, Roy screamed out as nails stitched up his side and chest. Despite feeling the whoosh of his right lung as it collapsed in his chest, the soldier crashed into Cho, taking the other man off his feet. Running on little more than adrenaline, Roy wrenched one of the nails from his shoulder and jammed it the other man’s cheek.

Cho screamed out, but as he did, Roy noticed that the pair were now flying.

No, not flying…

A massive pillar of earth had erupted beneath the Earth bender and was carrying the warring combatants up off the ground.

Senses started to numb, Roy landed a solid punch to the man’s face before jumping off from the growing column. He hit the ground, rolled, and melted into the trees.

Be safe, Ashe.

***​

As Roy ‘threw down’ with Cho, Ashe-0 found herself poised a few paces away from someone wearing a heavy blue cloak with golden trim. Lifting her remaining limbs, Ashe-0 searched her databases for a pertinent phrase for the given context. “You should be aware that, irregardless of outward appearances, I am still functioning within acceptable levels.”

“Was… was that your banter?” Sigmund asked. “I’ve driven men and women into the gibbering madness of insanity, and not one of them was as incomprehensible as you just were.”

“That outcome makes sense, given I am neither a man nor a woman.”

Ashe-0 moved to close the distance of the smaller figure, who simple pulled one of his hands out of his robe. The machine grimaced as the man’s clawed fingers tore through her synthetic flesh. Even so, she completed the motion and landed a crushing blow to the side of Sigmund’s hooded face. The cultist (the not-cultist?) staggered backward as his hood fell back to reveal the almost unnaturally pallid visage of a young man with brown hair.

“You might be a machine,” Sigmund whispered with a wide, manic grin. “But I’m sure I could break you one way or another.”

Ashe-0 glanced down and saw that the man’s weapon was a simple leather glove with blades affixed each fingertip. Like everything else on this island, they must have been more than meets the eye, as they had carved away layers of her synthetic flesh where they had scraped against her. “Anyone with functioning ocular nerves could disern that my physical form is quite susceptible to ‘breaking’.” Ashe-0 intoned before a now-scowling Sigmund sprung forward and landed another glancing slash along the length of her arm.

That particular appendage sagged—its servos whirring in agony as it twitched.

“You were too wounded coming into this engagement… you and your friend should have hidden better.”

The cycloid golem scowled. “I am not yet rendered entirely useless.”

“Yea, I guess you got one good arm left… you intend to try and beat me to death with your own limb?”

Somewhere, a producer with perfect hair scowled at the prospect of seeing the same trope played out twice.

“Negative.” Ashe-0 remarked as she heard the distant sound of screams. Roy? She couldn’t be certain, but she likewise understood this was an unwinnable and likely fatal situation for the two of them. “I have… what would a human say? A ‘secret weapon’?”

“Oh yea?” Sigmund asked as he crossed his arms over his cloaked chest and gently tapped the Krueger blades along his shoulder.

“Would you like me to demonstrate?”

“Only if I get to kill you afterwards.”

Ashe-0 smiled a dry smile. “You may try.” Stepping forward, the oversized golem of synthetic flesh and servos brought her boot right up into Sigmund’s crotch. The High Priest let out a gurgled yelp as he dropped to a knee.


28 Contestants Remain

Cho has a nasty stab wound through his cheek (aka – a fucking nail). His teeth are fine, but the business end of the nail did tear into the skin in his throat (Minor Injury). Also, that asshole hit you in the noggin’, so you might be dizzy (writing flavor/Story Injury).
Sigmund V may have some bruises but he will also be experiencing a great deal of nausea for a little bit (writing flavor/Story Injury)
Roy Mustang has a series of puncture wounds from a fucking nail gun. The worst of these punctured one of his lungs (Major Injury). This will make his time on the island even more laborious and he should really find a way to drain the blood before he chokes on it (writing flavor/Story Injury)
Ashe is down to one functioning arm. My she avoid any run-ins with jedi generals (Insane Injury)

All four parties are on cooldown (protected from another F2F) for 8 hours or unless they move from their present square. This protection can also be waived by letting me know via PMs.
 
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Gilgamesh

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Malefactor-Gilgamesh smelled the burning flesh of his foe; his synthetic jaws morphing into enormous mandibles ready to rip flesh from bone. He was so... hungry. But before he could consume his prey, a rocket exploded into his chest, sending him flying back into the forest. His body snapped branches and twigs, eventually slamming into the trunk of an enormous oak. The tainted King of Kings heard the pop of his back before he slowly fell limp on the ground.

“How unfortunate,” Malefactor-Gilgamesh muttered to himself as the symbiote haphazardly cracked his back into position. “It seems like my prey has escaped. For now,” he mumbled as he leaned against the trunk to stand himself up. “Those fucking mutts should willingly submit to their one true King. They would be honored to be my meal,” he growled, his symbiotic tongue licking his predatory teeth.

It was then Malefactor-Gilgamesh noticed something was off. He looked down to see that one of his arms had been vaporized. He clenched his teeth in rage and sliced the tree behind him in half. The oak slowly slid down the trunk before crashing into the forest. “Those filthy mongrels dared to befoul my perfect form?! You will suffer the most painful of deaths, you cur!” he howled out so loudly that it spooked the birds from the trees. “No matter,” he grunted. The symbiote peeled itself away from Gilgamesh’s face and body and launched itself into the hole where his shoulder used to be.

As the malefactor began to heal its host, Gilgamesh’s eyes fluttered as his normal consciousness flickered back to life. Noticing that the sun had set, he had assumed the worst. This thing had been in control for the past few hours. He was brought back to reality with searing pain, the symbiote weaving back together his nerve endings and flesh. The King of Heroes noticed that the green-black parasite had finished the foundations of his arm, the muscle and skin pulsating in unison.

What exactly had this thing made him do? The last thing he could clearly remember was the agonizing sensation of burning alive. Had he eliminated the filthy abomination that had crushed his fist? What was the fate of that Mouse? If he wanted to find out those answers and regain control, he was running out of time. The malefactor had just finished layering the skin over his muscle and had begun to seep back into his fingers and regain control.

“I have had quite enough of you. You have served your purpose,” Gilgamesh decreed, pulling at the goo that had begun to seep into his hand. It stretched out like a rubber band. Its tendrils began to release from the King’s fingers one at a time, but he wasn’t strong enough. His muscles gave out, snapping the malefactor back into his arm. It wouldn’t take another chance with that and began to quickly swallow Gilgamesh’s body.

“No. I am the King. I control you!,” Gilgamesh cried out in fear as the parasite spread across his neck. His cries became gurgled before they stopped altogether, the Malefactor melding itself with the King of Kings once again.
“There we go,” Malefactor-Gilgamesh calmly whispered to himself as he cracked his neck. “We are more comfortable in this form,” he said, stretching his newly rejuvenated arm. He flexed his muscles, the black sheen of the suit reflected the dim moonlight.

“I am the King of All!” Bryanmesh cried out. “This island should kneel and be grateful when I end their miserable lives! They are not worthy!” he growled to the wilderness. A twig broke. Malefactor-Gilgamesh snapped his head to the source to see a deer frozen in place, staring at the monster. It tensed its muscles, preparing to flee for its life.

The corrupted King of Heroes sent out his symbiotic tendrils, grasping around the deer’s ankles and yanking it to the ground. “You dare flee from the King!” he screamed as he dragged the deer closer. It bleated in fear as Malefactor-Gilgamesh’s jaw unhinged and stretched out, revealing a row of enormous canine teeth. The fawn kicked in place and struggled against the tendrils as they coiled around it, sliding it closer. Without hesitation, the monster took an enormous chomp from the creature’s chest. Nearly cleaving it in two, Malefactor-Gilgamesh slurped the organs from its chest cavity and munched on the rest of the deer’s remains until there was nothing left.

“Be grateful, foul creature,” the corrupted King spat. “Your flesh now serves a greater purpose: me!” he sadistically chuckled, wiping the remaining blood from his lips. Not wanting to waste a single drop, he licked his fingers.

“Hail to the King.”
 

Jester Lavorre

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"Get a different look on your face."

He prodded the Goliath Beetle, looking annoyed.

"You've been a real asshole all night."

An autodidact with a gift, Mugen had long found joy in Beetle Sumo. It hadn't been his first love - that honor went to the sword, an art in which he was also self-taught - but it was definitely up there. He'd clawed his way out of many a hungry night with the coin he'd earned ringside, and in doing so had gained a keen eye for a talented wrestler. What he had here...well, this little beauty was prize winning stuff.

The samurai knew that in order to take this gravy train on the road, he'd have to come out of Karl Jak's slaughterhouse victorious...after all, if he died here, he'd lose the Beetle.

From the charred hole in his threadbare undershirt he'd unraveled some loose thread with which he had tied a particularly heavy rock to his champion. The Beetle inched along, step by step, and Mugen couldn't fight back his smile. It almost brought a tear to his eye...the spirit in this little bug was that of a winner. That of a fucking champion. If he'd been uninspired before, he wasn't now. Though his shins and forearms had been excoriated by his many tumbles, and though his chest had been seared rare; the ronin felt that he'd come out little the worse for wear today. In fact, by the announcements passed down from on high, he was quite certain that he'd gotten the only kill on the island today.

He hung his feet over the cliff face, looking out over the forests and lakes beyond. Despite the morning's tribulations, the day had turned out to be pretty productive. The scrapes of rock on rock coming from his little bread-winner were indicative of a good day.

If he could find a second one, Hell, he could host some motherfucking sparring sessions up in this bitch!

A devilish grin split his face, a face that still wore the trappings of a young man's stubble. He stroked his wispy goatee fervently.

"...oh yeah," the ronin murmured, eyeing the beetle. "We'll have a whole Sumo Circuit set up for you before this competition's over."

Blissfully unaware of the chaos ensuing in a smattering of the island's locations, he plotted. On his rocky cliff perhaps ten by ten feet, nestled in and roosting; Mugen relaxed while others fought for their lives.

"...wonder how Mick is doing," he asked aloud, though there was no one (save for maybe the Beetle) to answer him. "...least I know he ain't dead."
 

Remilia Scarlet

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Why do they always default to Doomy? I grumbled to myself as I examined my companion. She was clearly of some stern stuff, her movements were deliberate and purposeful. A whimsical nature to her voice presented her as someone who cared even less about the dangers around us that I did, though to call her unaware was to underestimate her. I could see the windows of her soul as she peered to me with her smile, and I saw the kind of willful boredom that could only come from someone who’s seen it all. A pretty face, sure, but there was something about that smile, framed within her vibrant green hair, that reminded me of an Archvile about to light me on fire.

Though despite the killer instinct in her eyes, the awkwardness about the condoms just left me questioning things.

“Well, I’d rather not be sitting here in case that waterlogged jackass comes back” I got up from my seat, fishing out a go bar that remain of breakfast. “Can you walk on that?” I asked, but my concern was for naught as she stood up with only a brief ting to her face.

“Can you?” She asked back, but she seemed to lack worry for me as she was already on the move. Slowly, but moving. “It’d be not much use if I had to carry a load of meat with me, Doomy. Though not completely useless~.” She adds that last bit with a sing-song tone. Lovely, maybe that comparison to an archvile wasn’t too off base.

“It’s Do- Alright” I let out a sigh as I resigned to the nicknaming and followed after, the large sword rested on my swords.

Our movement could not have been more different. I was jumping from terrain to terrain, never standing still for long as I covered our approaches. She was taking what could best be described as a stroll, and she was the only person I’d have described as smelling the roses in the middle of a battle royal. It would have perhaps left a younger me frustrated, but I was only bemused at her casual approach.

“Hey Yuuka, can I bum some of those off you?” I asked as we entered the stepps. Little in the way of obscurement, my eyes were sweeping the land as we crossed. She looked at me, slight confusion on her face. “The con- the rub-” I was struggling to come up with a word to describe them, because that was one of those subjects most people were too pussy talk about. “The small circle things in the wrappers.”

---
Flynn

What?

In the middle of a DA, really?

What?! Okay, no, the Navy SEALs used them to keep their guns from getting water in the barrel. Seriously, what?

You did say she had a pretty face.

Who’s telling the story here? Shut up and let me continue.

---

“Hmmm, hopefully you find a better use for them.” The green haired woman replied as she tossed a few to me, and I pocketed the little packets of protection. I offered the half eaten go bar for trade before she waved me off. “If you can find a way to kill someone with them, that’s payment enough for me.”
 

Nico Cinder

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"One more time, from the top."

This uncultured heathen, it was like talking to a cartoon character. Our last little interaction with the island's other tourists smarted me quite a bit, and Pecan quite a bit more. We managed to shamble away and were now running away like the underdogs we were. I'd wave to the cameras if I wasn't loaded down like a pack mule. Instead, I occupied my time trying to keep medieval art alive with one of the most medieval people I've ever met.

"Hrrmmm...Not gonna lie to you, buddy old pal, these fancy words sure do take a lot of time to run through the old brainbox," Pecan cackles, and I shift my weight to shoulder more of his. No idea where any of his gear was, but at least he was about 5 or so pounds of flesh and blood lighter. I could feel the primitive bandages we tied around his wounds already soaked through. I didn't have a lick of medical know-how in me, but Pecan, of all people, seemed to know how to dress the wounds. Irony will never not amuse the shit out of me.

"Ah c'mon man, this one is easy," I say, pulling one of my favorite quotes out of my ass. "'Live by the sword, die by the sword.'"

He let loose a pretty healthy chuckle, not one you would expect from someone who was missing a tenth of his body mass. "That one I do like. That one is easy. Who said that one?"

"Shakespeare," I respond. "Sort of. It's a long story. It's also in the Bible I think."

"Only Bible Pecan knows is the Anarchist Cookbook, baby."

"You sure do, dude." You've been eyeing my rocket box for sometime now, you little shit, don't think I haven't noticed.

"Got anymore fancy words for Pecan, fancy boy?" He says, adjusting his weight to hobble along.

I think about it for a bit as we hobble along, and recall a rather fitting example:

"'But the stars that marked our starting fall away.
We must go deeper into greater pain,
for it is not permitted that we stay.'"

I finish the line of poetry a little off beat, doing my best to bring the words to mind. They come, but slowly. The things I do and don't remember constantly shift in and out in this way.

This piece of old earth literature illicits a low whistle from the killer. "And that one? What's that from? Finally sounds like you've found some reading yer boy can get into."

I turn to look at him with what I cannot resist describing as an utterly devilish smile.

"That, my fine and fiendish friend, is from a little book of poetry called Dante's Inferno."

"No kidding?" He barks a delirious sort of noise that could possibly in some way be considered a laugh.

"Wait until I make you read Edgar Allen Poe, you're gonna shit yourself, Pecan."

---

The guitar cast a faint red shade on the two of us whackjobs, blending Pecan's bloody wounds into the shadow of today's receding light. The instrument's light was molten and shifting, as if it were a jar full of sleepy vampire fireflies out for their last dance.

"How the fuck am I supposed to carry all this shit?" I find myself asking for the second time today. This time, someone answers.

"Oh quit yer whinin' kiddo," my newest of many burdens says to me. He adjusts his weight, no longer leaning on my shoulder for balance. "Here, yer pal Pecan can carry himself now. Only got about half of me to carry left anyways, Keheh-KOFF-HCK. I'll show ya how it's done, kid."

And the madman does, unsurprisingly, stand and even walk on his own, though by the looks of the rubies he just coughed up I'm not sure he's gonna make it far. Pecan makes a face I can't quite discern in the shifting sea of red shadows, as if something caught his attention for a moment. The brief flicker of expression is gone with the passing of the red waves, and I elect not to ask.

Ahead, I see a healthy smattering of moonlight, and maybe the only bit of luck Pecan has had this entire first day of the game: a small, seemingly abandoned lakeside hut. Shelter. Safety. Or maybe death and despair, as is the tradition for damned people such as myself.
 

Pecan

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Losing half your arm was about as sideways as things could get. And that wasn't even the worst of it. Both injuries jockeyed for space in my noodle, forming an agonizing cocktail of sensations. For more than a moment I considered biting down on the business end of Nico's launcher. But, like most things in life, this could be managed. You see, when faced with absurdly excrutiating pain, the brain adapts. It goes into a sort of witness protection program, half lucid, half inebriated. "Paindrunk" as I liked to call it, and believe me I had seen it happen more than once.

One time, back on Mesa Roja, I was having a friendly feud with a local bandit lord. Dude was a real pain in the ass, had a real superiority complex, thought he was better than all us dirt-eaters. He had a real lame habit of waking up right before sunrise and making a pot of tea over a campfire, like the pretentious fuckwad he was. So anyways, I snuck into his camp one night, and set up right in front of his tent. That morning, when he stepped outside to greet the sun, he greeted the blunt end of a lead pipe instead. Ol' Pecan swung for the fences. But rather than keel over and die, the guy fell over, writhed about for a bit, and then got up like nothing happened. His face was practically concave and leaking like a faucet. Still, like a man possessed, he stumbled over to the campfire, made a cup of tea, took one sip, and collapsed from blood loss. Just going through the motions. So, I tell you this so you can understand just how the hell I was able to keep going. Ol' Pecan was just going through the motions, and the motions was murder.

"You, uh, okay there?" Nico asked, "Lookin' real rough."

I must've dozed off for a minute, judgin' by the worried look in his eye. We had made our way south and holed up in a little cabin to lick our wounds overnight. Nothin' besides my cigar and the stars to shed some light, but I could see the concern in his face.

"I'm all good," I lied, "Nothin' a little high octane adrenaline can't fix."

"Right."

"Right," I responded, letting myself sprawl out on the floor, "Like your boy Willy said, 'These violent nights have violent ends'."

"That, was actually pretty close," Nico said, pulling his guitar into his lap. Quietly he strummed the instrument, pulling a gentle melody from the ether. It wasn't my kinda thing, but it was soothing in a way. For a good while I laid there, drifting in and out of wakefulness while he plucked away. It was all so terribly boring. His strumming took a sharp turn, adopting a harsher more progressive vibe. My eyes drifted towards the matte black rocket launcher resting besides him.

Just as he started launching into a sinister riff I opened my mouth, and pointed towards the weapon, "Hey, let me see that."

His eyes flash open and he looked startled. Like a deer dropped in front of a freight train. His guitar came screeching to a halt. Man, you could see the gears in his head turning. Do I really hand over my only weapon to a self-proclaimed psycopath? The answer is - hell fucking yeah you do. But it took him a few moments and a liberal application of "fuck it.". Finally, like a good boy, he slid the launcher across the room.

Like a street dog given a bowl of kibble I snatched that bitch up. Nothin' like a new toy to make a man feel spry. Before Nico could say anything I was up and hobbling towards the door. Whether he was amused or just wanting make sure I didn't run off with his toy he followed me outside. The air was crisp, and the night was cooling down. In the distance was a lake and I hobbled my way there.

"What're you doing there buddy?" Nico asked, an almost bemused tone in his voice.

"You know how many times the opportunity crops up to fire a rocket launcher?" I asked, "Fuck giving up that chance now."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Nico asked, "Shouldn't we be stealthy or some shit?"

"Nah," Paindrunk and horny for some explosions, I answered, "Let's give these losers a show, start wailing on that badboy and I'll give you some percussion."

There was a pause, but Nico didn't leave me hanging. He started out slow, giving a real good buildup into some filthy licks. As we neared the edge of the lake he really started hammering out a melody fit for mayhem. With a big ol' grin on my dirty face I aimed the launcher towards the lake and pulled the trigger.

Orgasms were nothing compared to this pleasure. The heat, the smell of ignition, the sound. It was all almost too much. But that was just the appetizer. The warhead screamed across the lake, reflecting a trail of smoke and fire along its surface. For a good mile or so I watched the bird soar, dancing in time to Nico's music. Then, it dipped below the surface, sinking silently. Just as I was about to expect a dud, Nico's music hit a crescendo and the rocket detonated. It was absolute beauty manifest.
 

Toga Voorhees

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Elsewhere on the island, a shrill shriek cut through the quiet of the forest, sending a cacophonic flight of birds into the sky. Breath heavy and eyes filled with tears, Toga bit down on her sweater sleeve to stifle another scream. With one, final tug, and another barely restrained cry, her makeshift cast was complete, for what it was worth. Little more than an extra-thick wrapping of cloth around her elbow, using the remains of her school sweater, it wouldn’t do much to actually protect the limb. But, the girl figured that anything more than this would leave her right arm completely unusable, and an arm that hurt to use was a far sight better than one she couldn’t use at all.


While her arm was certainly the worst of the damage Toga had received from her run-in with the Galactic Tyrant and the Merc with a Mouth, she had a variety of cuts, bruises, and scrapes across her formerly pristine skin, and her clothing was little more than blood-stained rags at this point. Ass firmly placed on the forest floor, the murder loli reclined against a tree and closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to dull enough to continue on. After a moment, she reached into the top of what remained of her sock and pulled out a small slip of, now worse for wear, paper. As she had done when she’d first perused the contents of her bag, she read over the surprisingly elegant words written on it.


“Yo, homeslice!


As my way of apologizing for the hold-up at the Pre-Show, take this. Much like all the boys back home, you can make this pole grow to an amazing size! I think it’s ‘on fleek’ and ‘lit’.


Kisses!!!

Karl”


Toga groaned, “Fucking boomer...”
 

The Future Warrior

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Ashe's pace had slowed dramatically.

But she persevered, doing her best to put distance between herself and the site of their last battle. In one of her barely-functioning arms, she carried her own duffel bag of supplies, as well as that of her partner, in a weak and twitching grip. In her still fully-functional arm, she carried the wheezing form of Roy Mustang, much to his weak protestations. But any attempts to extricate himself from her grasp only served to aggravate his injuries, and so his efforts soon fell still as he focused on his increasingly labored breathing. Keeping him steady to alleviate as much of his agony as possible while maintaining an even footing and pace was difficult in her damaged condition.

"Guess...that plan didn't work out so well...huh?" the soldier managed in a voice filled with strained mirth.

"It did not," Ashe agreed solemnly. "We are worse off than before. However...we are not eliminated. Yet."

"Ominous..." Mustang let out a weak chuckle, wincing and shuddering heavily.

"You require treatment for your wounds if we are to survive for much longer." It was a statement of fact, and didn't leave room for any questions. "We have no proper supplies for such a feat."

"Yeah...real shame, isn't it?" The officer slowly brought a hand up to his coat and searched around for something, bringing out...a phone. He did something for a scattering of seconds, before letting his arm holding it fall limp across his chest. "Proper medical supplies would make it a lot easier."

"We can improvise." The golem faltered in her pace, one leg shuddering and sliding several inches to one side with a harsh sound of crunching twigs and grating pebbles, nearly sending her crashing down to her knees. Damage and the abundance of spilled fluids and expended energy beginning to catch up with her, it seemed. Her face twisted into a scowl, as she forcefully re-routed the power which would normally go to her missing limb and the now-useless one to the rest of her body.

It was just enough to get her back in proper balance and moving forward.

"Improvise, huh? Not..." He gave a weak sputtering cough on his own words. "...not that I'm against it. But what would we even use?"

"I am damaged," Ashe said quietly. "The damaged components can be safely removed with little difficulty."

The true meaning behind that took some time to fully settle into Mustang's head, but when it did his eyes widened slightly. "You can't be serious..."

"A small number of additional missing pieces will not impede my function any further than my current damage has. Rest assured of that." They emerged from the trees and into the dim, silver-hued light of the moon overhead. "....good. There will be sufficient illumination for the most immediate process." She took half a dozen more steps before there was a whirring groan of stressing servos, and her damaged arm gave out. The two duffel bags fell to the grassy terrain below with a pair of mismatched thumps.

Three more paces, and there came several quick snapping pops and electrical hisses. One of her legs buckled and she fell down to one knee. She immediately re-routed her remaining power to her upper body, and stretched out her good arm to gently place Mustang on the ground before the rest of her body fell as well, crashing down into the dirt and grass with a reverberating CRASH.

"You will...need to do the medical procedures....yourself." The light in her eye grew dim, and a muffled, deeply distorted voice from somewhere within her torso intoned ENTERING LOW-POWER STATE. She managed to swivel her eye to look back at Roy. "I will be....resting...for a few...hours..." And then her eye went dark, and she went silent.
 

Kefka Palazzo

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Being dragged into a river by a horrible little creature would usually be considered a bad thing. Perhaps the fact it wasn’t reflected poorly on his current situation, thrashing through rapids, being yanked this way and that by the disgusting green midget’s shockingly powerful grip.

It was quite a struggle, hobbled has he was, to fight through the current to the riverbank, and by the time he and his vile seed-grown friend made it to dry ground, they had been swept a long way down-river.

And farther away from whatever that thing was.

Kefka gingerly rose to his feet, wincing as his hip ground and clicked audibly. “Well, that hurts tremendously. How are you, my little savior?”

The revolting little creature chittered a moment, and then shrieked unintelligibly at him.

“Well,” he replied, with a bit of a huff. “That’s just… deeply unsettling.”

The creature shrieked its response.

“Like nails on a chalkboard. I will call you… Screamsicle.”

The saibaman tilted its head.

“Now, then, Screamsicle, a status report from your divine leader: there is a horrible creature out there that tried to tear me in half starting from the crotch. Unfortunately, your brother, lets call him ‘Flamebroil’, he didn’t make it.”

Kefka laughed his trademark whooping cackle – it was a piercing, dark, awful thing – and grinned.

But, dear Screamsicle, I did learn one thing, and do you know what that is?”

Screamsicle waited patiently for its liege to continue.

“I’ve been carrying this bag the entire time I’ve been here,” Kefka grabbed the duffel hanging at his hip and gave it a shake for emphasis. He laughed. “I had no idea. How crazy is that?”

The mirth rushed out of the Mad King’s eyes and his mouth cut an insidious frown.

“You know what else is crazy?” he glared at Screamsicle for a dreadful moment, and then beamed brightly at the little green monster. “Just how selfish that monster that attacked me has been. He must know that once I regain my rightful divinity that I’ll have to wash this world clean of life because of him. It would be irresponsible not to, afterall.”

The creature shrieked back at him. Kefka shivered involuntarily.

“You are just… reprehensible, you know that?” he growled, storming off in a huff. The saibaman trailed along at a distance, allowing the mortal god a moment to his thoughts.

So, no powers, a surprisingly fragile body, some weird collar thing, a disgusting little warrior slave grown from a seed, and still no sign of civilization anywhere.

How positively interesting.

Screamsicle shrieked, causing him to shiver again.

“I think I hate you, Screamsicle,” he said.
 

Aku

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What in the pit of hate was t-that… that… THING?

Not in his lifetime, Aku witnessed such a powerful yet perfect being to oppose him. This monster was far worse than that foolish samurai that the master of darkness dealt with eons. Was that one of the opponents he was competing against or one of Karl Jak's pets? No, the pet theory rules out since this abomination was carrying a weapon. Such raw power that this rival gives to terrorize this island.

It created jealousy inside him, wishing he had this power to squash mortals.

His face turns into envy poker face, clenching his teeth, and grinding them with a grudge he has against this fool who thinks that he is far superior to Aku's name.

NO, this will not be tolerated by him. He's the one to threaten everyone on this miserable island, not HIM. This bitterness will remain until this monster dies by the hands of Aku or maybe someone else.

A worthy competition has stepped into his domain, unwelcomed.

After connected to his recent fight's deep thoughts, the burned flesh turned on his nervous system with pain to remind him of his mortality. His fractured leg still had pain in it, too, but wasn't as bad from before. He keeps inhaling and exhaling air in his lungs to get enough oxygen after the adrenaline-pumping action. Aku yelps a little after touching his back against the tree, his back retaliates with pain to not be affected. The night surrounds him yet again in darkness, making the black demon to disappear before anyone's eyes.

He crosses the forest, pushing any obstacle out of his way. Leaves and branches at moments scratched his back, making him wince at the burn. His big white eyes dart back and forth, to see if anyone is following him or in the area unaware of his presence. As much Aku wishes to fight again, sleepiness and food are what he most desires.

Out of the woods, the shogun of sorrow comes across a bank connected to the gorgeous blue lake. How lucky of him coming across a significant body of water to help ease the burn. Gladness warms him that he can relax a little before coming across another enemy. Aku limps toward the sandy shoreline of the lake with content. The night is a little cooler than the daytime is, which will not freeze the water too much.

He dips his toe in the water to check the temperature, so he doesn't catch hypothermia.

Yep, the water seems fine to splash around in to ease his stress.

The shogun of sorrow grabs his duffel bag and pulls it off him, dropping it on the shoreline.

Aku walks into the lake, washing away any grime or dried sweat that stunk his body. The naturally freshwater soothes his moods, making a wide loose smile. Happiness appears across Aku's face as he moves farther away from the shore. The moonlight reflects off the calm surface of the lake. Frogs chirp their matting calls all over the vast body of water to breed life. Bass swim into the shallows to feed, leaving their deepwater haunts. Cranes return to their nests, protecting their young from any potential nocturnal predators.

In a rarity, Aku is at peace, which had not happened in a long time. The last time that he was in this state of mind was when the samurai had no way to travel back in time to destroy his future.

When the water is submerging his shoulders, the demon swims around in the lake to calm his back down. The cold aqua hitting against his back is relieving to feel. Feeling the hot sun all day in this blacked-out body was miserable. The Splashing muddles the water around Aku, doing strokes in the calm waters. He swims for about an hour, as long he can to relieve the burn.

After finishing his swim, he heads back to the sandy shoreline. He pulls each leg out of the heavy water as his feet slowly sink in the loose sand. The master of swimming completely steps out of the water, all soaking wet yet happy. His red ponytail sags behind him from being damp. He shakes his head back and forth to dry off a little and get water out of his ears. Not too far where he stands, a cave opening goes into the less high plant-filled mountain.

This cave will be a great spot to get rest and shelter, and maybe no one will sneak up on him while eating and sleeping.

Aku straps his duffel bag on his back with a loose strap and makes his way toward the cave filled with pitch-black darkness. Before entering the cave, he uses his elemental control to ignite a fireball within his hand as a light source. The demon embarks into the unknown cave, trying not to go too deep within it because he could lose his way. His right arm raises out in front with his elbow at an angle while the fire crackles and pops.

The light plays off the walls, flickering in any direction to not give a full shine. Aku can still see his way of walking in the rock-filled tunnel. At a specific spot, he decides to stop and rest for energy. The master of darkness sits down on the rocky surface, off to the side of the tunnel. His position hugs the wall, and he thinks if someone were coming by, it would be hard to see him not being in the middle.

After sitting for a minute, he takes off his survival bag to search for his MREs. The demon grabs one of his meals and the bottle of water he was sipping earlier.

MEATLOAF FLAVOR

Not his favorite kind of flavor, but he will try to tolerate it.

"I deserve better than this; I should be eating like a king!" Aku speaks softly alone before unwrapping the MRE and taking his first bite.

After having his late-night meal, the demon extinguishes the fire in his hand and goes off to sleep. He lays his head against the bag with his back facing laying across the ground. Still, every movement he does in his sleep will make the burning pain return, but now it was not as bad from before he swam.

As the master of sleep slumbers, dreams start to dwell inside his head of causing destruction in his perfect giant Godzilla form, catching fire and vaporizing anyone standing before him.

He chuckles a little in his sleep from the dream.

Tomorrow will be a new day for his crusade.
 

Sigmund Vrell

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Sigmund helplessly watched the cyclops lurch off into the darkness of the woods, desperate to chase down the wounded warrior. Before he could even take a step, however, the high priest dropped to the floor in agony, desperately clutching at his manhood, carefully avoiding using his gloved hand. The cultist spat a string of curses as he keeled over, slamming his clawed fist into the ground.

“Come on, you’re stronger than this, you can take a little pain!” The psion choked, wondering if he could catch up to Ashe if he started sprinting. He struggled to his feet and stood for a moment before a wave of nausea hit him, forcing him back to the ground. “Maybe I'm not stronger than this…”

“Sigmund?” The priest heard a voice calling. He allowed himself to breath a shaky sigh of relief. At least Cho sounded mostly alright, if a little hoarse.

“I’m over here.” The mindbreaker called weakly, holding back a groan. The pain had begun to subside somewhat, but so had the bloodlust and mania that had overtaken him in the fight and without the adrenaline rush the throbbing felt even worse. There was a brief ruffling of foliage before the bender found his fellow Babylonian, holding his bloodied cheek and double taking at Sigmund’s state.

“Sigmund! Are you o-” The youth’s voice trailed off as he realised what the cultist was clutching at. “Oh… I'm sorry.”

“It's okay, I wasn't using them anyway.” Vrell groaned as he began to rise to his feet once more, managing to stay on them this time. Though the pain was lessening, he still cradled his crotch gingerly, taking a few shaky steps towards his partner. “You performed well there. Did you get your mark?”

“No, he stabbed me and booked it into the woods.” Cho replied. Sigmund leaned in, inspecting the youth’s wound for a moment. It certainly looked painful, but didn't seem likely to cause any complications at a glance. He couldn't but wonder if his throat had sustained some damage, however, which would explain the slight rasp in his voice.

“Well, it doesn't look concerning. Don’t worry about not getting your kill, either, mine escaped as well.” The cultist sighed, glancing up at the sky. “It’s getting dark, we should set up camp. After we get away from here, that is. I doubt our engagement here was very subtle.”

The young man nodded in agreement and the pair continued their trek into the island, each one nursing their respective wounds as they did so. Determined, they didn't stop their march until dusk fell and it was too dark to continue. The Babylonians had found themselves in another forest, though this one was different to the ones Sigmund had become acquainted with over the course of the competition, with trees that would not have been out of place in the lands to the south of his old home rather than the evergreen trees of the north.

The pair quickly got to work, grabbing loose wood and using it to start a small fire, large enough to warm them but not significant enough to draw any attention. The idea of lighting the forest ablaze to flush out any competitors briefly crossed Sigmund’s mind, but he pushed the notion away without voicing it. Both men were silent as they sat on each side of the fire, each deep in thought.

On his side, the cultist was running through the fight in his mind again and again, his heart racing each time. True, the golem had hardly reacted to him, but he had gotten the first chance to test his new weapon and could barely suppress a grin as he thought about doing it again. Not even a brutal blow to the sin zone could tarnish the memory as the high priest flexed his gloved hand, admiring the cruel claws. As he did so, Sigmund noticed a small, ragged sliver of synthetic flesh caught on one of the blades.

“How curious.” The scholar mumbled, carefully taking the sample between his fingers and slipping it off, inspecting it closely. It looked remarkably like real flesh, he would have immediately assumed it was genuine if he wasn't aware of the contrary. The cultist made a mental note to rewatch the fight when the whole ordeal was over, as well as any others Ashe had been in. She had clearly been subjected to a number of other weaponry over the course of the day, and Sigmund wanted to see how her body responded to each and every one.

Tossing the scrap aside, he turned to Cho. “Do you want to sleep? I can take the first watch. Or you could stay awake for a while longer if you're not tired. I'm rather alert right now so I'm not ready to sleep either way.”
 

Arthur Morgan

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That evening’s announcement from that Jack feller left them both feeling out of sorts, Arthur suspected. After their little spat on the road, he wasn’t too surprised to see Kopaka hanging sullenly back as they traveled, the silence hanging between them like a taut thread poised to snap.

”That partner of yours wants to win just as badly as you do. Can you really trust them to have your best interests at heart?”

Well, no. But Arthur hadn’t felt for a long time that anyone had his best interests at heart. At this point, he wouldn’t be too shocked if Kopaka did eventually opt to turn on him, and most of it were Arthur’s own fault.

Shouldn’t have drawn my damn gun on him, thought Arthur, filled to the brim with regret. Shouldn’t’ve done a lot of things.

But he’d done what he’d done, and there weren’t no taking it back. Arthur had aimed his weapon at his partner’s head in a fit of rage and sorrow, and though he regretted it, he knew that this horrible, traitorous, and potentially life-ending decision would be hanging over both their heads for the rest of their time on the island. The very knowledge of that fact burned at him, like a hot coal simmering beneath his breastbone.

Still, as day slipped into night, the two travelers naturally gravitated closer together, seeking insurance against the potential dangers lurking in the dark. The wind howled as it traveled unhindered across the barren plain, tall grass interspersed with patches of clover and the occasional rock whipping in the breeze. At one point Arthur thought he heard the bark of a fox come from somewhere behind them, the shrill cries of night birds echoing across the steppe in eerie mockery of human voices.

The ground was still partly mud in places. By the silver light of the moon, Arthur would crouch to study these damp spots in the dirt closely, searching for animal tracks or traces left behind by other contestants. He only found a few signs of others passing through— some large boot prints he suspected belonged to a rather sturdy feller, and one print impressed into the mud in the shape of a blocky, elevated shoe, obviously moving quickly judging by the slight trace of someone’s big toe joined with it.

Despite his newfound uncertainty about his ally’s friendship, Arthur always left his back undefended, hoping against hope that the small showing of trust would help to soothe fresh wounds. He had a sinking feeling that something big was coming, a strange darkness emanating from the east, and they’d need each other when it came time to fight.

Eventually, the moon was lost behind a cloud, leaving them in the black. For a while they merely floundered in the gloomy darkness, attempting to travel in a straight line despite the lack of visibility. It was through sheer luck alone that the two stumbled across a collection of rocks and other debris— literally stumbled, too, as Arthur tripped over a chunk of something in the dark and crashed to the ground in a heap.

“You should be more careful,” Kopaka chided quietly, hovering over him like a chilly spectre and practically buzzing with urgency. “Any noise we make could forewarn enemies of our approach.”

“Thanks, pa,” grumbled Arthur under his breath, clambering to his feet. He dusted off the new specks of mud clinging to his clothes, feeling out his pack in the dark to reclaim it.

Ignoring that little jab, Kopaka continued speaking. “We will not make much progress in the darkness. We should find cover and wait for the dawn.”

Arthur snorted. “That’s the best damn idea anyone ever had, Kopaka.”

And that was how the two found themselves settling in not too far from where Arthur had fallen, hunkering down against a large stone. Shifting a little to get more comfortable with the cold rock digging into his spine and an even frostier robot at his side, Arthur nestled down with his chin pressed to his chest, hoping to steal a quick catnap before sunup.

He glanced to the side, catching a glimpse of Kopaka’s optics in the gloom, nothing more than a brief flicker of silver. Emotion boiled at the back of Arthur’s throat, suddenly, fit to burst out of him in a flood of regret.

“Weren’t my intention to trouble you, earlier,” he said, voice raising only a little to be heard over the chorus of chirping crickets and frogs swelling in the air around them. “I… I apologize, for that. Shouldn’t’ve railed at you the way I did.”

There was a long silence from Kopaka, the unfeeling darkness sealing around them like a quiet tomb. Then:

“Our time would be better spent on rest.”

Despite the non-answer, the cold that had been hanging around the Toa since their disagreement seemed to subside, the night air warming considerably in its absence. There would be very little sleep tonight, Arthur knew that much, but at least some of his worries had left him.
 

Roy Mustang

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Mustang’s vision shifted between the blackness of unconsciousness and the silver-black of the night. Each breath was an achievement, the sucking sound that emanated from his left chest made clear how dire his straits were. The war machine Ashe-0 lay on the ground nearby, only a few erratically blinking status lights gave any indication that she would be able to reboot. It left him in a complicated predicament. Before collapsing, Ashe-0 had offered some of her damaged components to serve as the medical supplies he needed. It was a generous sacrifice, and one Mustang likely required if he was to see the sunrise. But now she was dormant. He would have to disconnect the tubing himself, and simply pray he hadn’t further crippled his steadfast ally in the process.

He rolled over onto one side, coughing a mouthful of blood out onto the grass. Adrenaline had long faded, and Roy could feel his mind beginning to shut down. He spit the dregs of blood out of his mouth and crawled over to Ashe-0’s injured side. The second arm was a jagged stump, but he was able to see a bit of tubing, long enough for his needs, and a sufficiently sharp sliver of metal. He tugged at the components, realizing that he most definitely lacked the strength to separate them by force. To his surprise the components he pulled came free of Ashe-0 with a pneumatic hiss. A sequence of lights played across the dormant surface of her face, then it went dark once again. Mustang breathed through clenched teeth, unable to even manage a spare breath to thank her.

With a painful effort he pushed himself up against a sloped bit of the ground. There were two parts to this problem, and neither prospect was promising. Mustang held the sliver of metal in one hand, it’s pointed needle-like tip glinting in the moonlight. He took a series of rapid shallow breaths vision beginning to blur as his body tried desperately to keep up. With a growl he bit down on the collar of his jacket, then pushed the needle into his flesh. Pain spiked once again, but as the trapped air leaked out of his chest cavity the collapsed lung expanded and he was able to take a much deeper breath than he’d had for the last hour. His second breath failed to follow, and he curled over with a gurgle, spitting another mouthful of blood.

Now came the difficult part. Mustang fit the tubing around the needle, biting the blood-soaked collar once again he pressed on. His vision was now running red and black by turns as he fed the tubing into the incision, and into his lung. Slowly he fumbled around for the other end of the tubing, then raised it to his mouth. mentally steeling himself, he sucked at the other end, priming the siphon to begin emptying the blood that had been pooling inside his lung. He watched the red liquid leaking from the end of the tubing, his breathing slowing, his mind fading. With a hint of irony, he realized he had been concerned about what this death game would make him do to people, an arrogant man’s dilemma in retrospect. He knew he deserved all this pain and more for his actions during the Ishval conflict. His debt would not be settled by a single death like this. For a time he stared unseeing at the night sky, mind trapped in a world he'd burned to cinders with his own hand.

A series of pinging chimes from Ashe-0 eventually drew Mustang’s attention out of its daze. She still appeared to be powered down, but the status lights had reached a more regular pattern of their own. A soothing green in the moonlit night. They could just lay here. he found his consciousness slipping once again, if not from pain then from sheer exhaustion. Perhaps no one would come along, despite it all. Mustang almost fooled himself into believing it was possible.

He swallowed, the bitter taste of blood clinging to his mouth, pain so ubiquitous it had faded to normality. He scrunched his eyes closed, then forced them open to focus on something. A tree, branches splayed upwards into the starry sky. Its leaves danced and flickered in the night wind. There were many of them in the moonlit scene around them. They were still here on the island, likely not too far from the location of the fight. His breathing was heavy, deliberate, but steadier than it had been in some time. Mustang forced himself to rise into a sitting position fighting the Nausea that swept over him in a wave. Panting with ragged and shaky breaths, he extracted the make-shift siphon, and held a cloth covering to the spot. The part of a solider that refuses to die was the only thing keeping him awake at this point, and he sat there, focusing as best he could on their surroundings. He had no illusion of his ability to move Ashe-0 before she rebooted herself. There were still twenty-six people on this island who would be all to happy to finish what they started. He'd be damned if he let one just kill the both of them in their sleep.
 

Gildarts

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Time flipped as torn out pages of a tome within the haunted mage’s mind. Something about gazing on this darkness with unrelenting eyes gave him temporary rebirth. Gildarts heard a man calling from above. Numbers, letters, the eternal code of the universe. Gildarts knelt to the ground and found himself bowing to the voice from the sky.

Another page flipped. Stars were twinkling. The tripping man had been avoiding horrible thoughts for a while and it took more than a little focus. Any slip up and… The shade of fear would take over and shackle him once more. He used the little bit of touch he had with his mind to keep the chaos at bay. So much like before when he’d struggle to contain his raw power, however now, his collar made the crash magic churning within him easier to restrain. It was within that he was now forced to overcome.

Gildarts felt his mind falling once again. The stars had turned into glowing obsidian shards and began to shoot toward him. The black orbs bolted through the air, zooming and whirling just past the mage’s flesh before hovering suspended above the barren ground. They’d paused in synchrony, humming with energy before in a flash delving deep into the ground, burrowing like a mole and leaving a small pile of earth exhumed.

Suddenly a screech blasted in his mind. Immediately his hands reached his head and began to squeeze, hoping to muffle the agony or at the very least claw it out. An extinguished squelch of torture caught in his throat. The pain vanished as swiftly as it had come on and along with it, his arms relaxed at his sides. The veteran mage fell to the ground with relief, one side of his face smothered in sand. His eyes were glassed over, staring blankly and reeling from the rapid exertion of his mind.

It had left him in a daze. The ground beneath him prodded his thoughts. Within each little speck of sand was something stirring with energy. They were the molecules of life. Buzzing beneath him and encompassing all the earth around him. He mustered the strength to turn unto his back. He could now feel it with the skin of his shoulders pressed against the ground. He could feel the gentle vibrations with his head as though he were laying over a pillow, lulling him into…

Forgetfulness.

The most deadly of sins in his deplorable state.

Sticky dark shadows began to slide over his skin, blankets of black coiling around the edges of his body.

No. His eyes widened. It took him with ease.

The touch of the sleek formless entity consumed him with emotion. This time, it was anger that devoured him. A temptation under regular circumstances he dared not ever partake. With his power, with his burden, with his pain, his anger had been so easily tapped into. He wanted to succumb.

He felt his inner turmoil growing, the woes of battle between chaos and control, good and evil, shade and light. Fear bursted in his chest, sparking with explosion, colliding into an overflow of power and aggression. Beneath him, the earth shook. Rocks crackled around him. Surreal sensations swayed around him. This… Couldn’t have been his imagination. This was him. He’d felt this before. Too many times. He’d play the hero, but destroy with the gluttony of a villain.

The mage felt the velvet shadows that had once been at his feet fully envelop him. His body’s motions were muffled. However this time, sensation brushed with reality. Rocks clashed together, their ricochets smashing with symphonic rage. His might became tangible in the air. His magic cast in intricate white waves, attacking the empty earth and paving it with destruction. Yet he was grounded, he knew his back was held down by gravity. He clutched that wisp of a thought as closely as he could.

The man pressed his eyes together, squeezing whatever could be squeezed within him. Willing whatever he could control to please come back to him. Unfortunately, his desperation became tangible. A sickening sludge filled his torso and the room for air in his lungs began to dwindle, suffocating him of air and filling him with toxic muck.

Trepidation consumed him again. Gildarts became distraught, his heart began to pound. His fingertips flexed and clawed at the sandy earth but offered him no sway. The goo within him began to thicken and congeal within his lungs. He violently fought for each breath, grappling with the ground as he turned over. He'd arched his back he desperately trying to hack up the choking mess anchored in his lungs.

His auburn hair framed his picture of the sandy ground, his vision was colorless and blurred. He saw only his clenched hand and the thick sludge drooling out of his mouth sluggishly. His throat couldn’t grasp enough air to bellow with a cry that would only ever echo back.

With a thick Plop! The not-vomit had reached the ground in front of him, finally expelled. The man sucked in air, never having been so grateful for something so invisible.

His eyes narrowed with dread as they fell back on the black glob. The mush’s only notable traits were that it held a glossy reflection of him. His hair, mere dusty clumps of tangle. His face looked as though it wore a mask. Ghoulishly gaunt from days without eating, shadows woven underneath his eyes formed from fear and the tremors of exhaustion that had shaken him awake from every cloud of slumber.

The woozy Gildarts staggered to two feet, clunkily his joints forced themselves together and he began to walk again. He could tell that his terrain had changed, time was a thick concept on fruit juice but he’d felt some form of its calm passing.

“I see what you’re trying to do.” He spoke this time to the world around him. To the deepest essence of the expanding universe. He was being tested by the mighty, he was being tested in order to change.

Gil’s determined gaze wavered and he let his shoulders slump. His voice, morbidly admitted. “And I just can’t take it anymore.”

He was sentient enough to pull out his compass. With that dark anger bringing out the depths of his inner villainy, he held unto the hope that this compass would bring him in a new direction.

He watched the needle waver and pause in one direction, fate pointed that way. A mere roll of the dice.

He closed his eyes and opened them again, finding that more snippets of time had lapsed. He found his tongue in the middle of a large saliva slathered swab against the compass face. He brushed off his flush of embarrassment, adding to himself he was merely getting a lick… er… Taste for destiny. Symbolically of course.

He'd found himself wandering through dense shrubbery. The excerpts of dimly painted green were lively, plush comfort for the giddy, hippie-looking mage.

“Psssssssssst.” He called out. Recently, he’d adopted a tall, bone-colored walking stick. He felt it extended his molecular touch to the nature around him. He’d spotted someone. It was still dark.

“Oi, can I ask ya somethin’?” Gildarts hustled real close and even crouched down, confirming his secretive stance was his next hushed whisper, “Do you know where I’m goin'?”
 

Frieza

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Hours of searching, and there was still no sign of the insolent brat. After an injury like that you'd think there would be a trail of blood to follow, but no. It was like she'd vanished into thin air. Maybe she woud keel over and die somewhere without Frieza needing to do the dirty deed himself, but where was the fun in that? Almost a full day had passed, and he hadn't managed to kill a single person.

About that... hm.

He glanced over at Deadpool, who was chatting (or... narrating?) incomprehensibly to, as far as Frieza could tell, nobody whatsoever. Yeah, he wasn't even going to ask. If what he said about discarding his weapons and provisions was true, he probably would be an easy kill. Still, useless and unpredictable or not, an ally was an ally, and it seemed too early in the game to start turning on his own pawns.

More than that, though, there was something that unnerved Frieza about this Deadpool character. He definitely didn't recall the names and power rankings of all the contestants, but the name Deadpool had been somewhere near the top, hadn't it? That couldn't have been for nothing. Call it a premonition, call it reasonable caution, but Frieza couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Deadpool than met the eye. Until Frieza figured out what ace he had up his sleeve, he couldn't allow himself to become complacent.

He looked up at the sky. It was past sundown, and if they kept wandering about after dark they'd just be leaving themselves vulnerable to an ambush. Moreover, Frieza hadn't touched his supplies yet, and he was beginning to feel the physical effects of fasting all day. Not debilitating, but noticeable. And if Deadpool had really been stupid enough to throw out his food and water, he absolutely would not entertain the notion of sharing his own. They weren't far from File City, which seemed as good a place as any to find shelter. Plus, he might be able to figure out what had happened in the aftermath of that "easter egg" event. The wench would live--for now.

"It's almost nightfall," said Frieza. "Loathe as I am to say it, I believe it's time for us to throw in the metaphorical towel. We'll make camp in the city."

"Loud and clear, Freezy!"

Frieza's eye twitched. It wasn't worth arguing with him. At least he'd landed in the ballpark of his actual name this time.

Once they arrived at the city, Frieza gave the order to split up for the night and rendevous at dawn. Sleeping in shifts with Deadpool would be a fool's errand, as would turning his back to him. With that, the two parted. After a short period of searching, Frieza found a secure enough spot to camp for the night. Once he settled in, he went through the first day's worth of rations, and fell into a restless slumber.
 

Fenix

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Suwako groaned, doing her best to pace her steps on her bum leg. a pair of walking sticks fashioned from the best willow trees that desperation and haste could buy. With a groan, Suwako let the pain flow through her. her leg was doing as best it could, but the set wasn't going to help her win any fashion statements.

No, it was looking like she didn't have time in this little island fight to wait on the wound to heal properly. The agony was intense - but Suwako was capable of ignoring it. The Little goddess still remembered the pain of nearly fading from existence in the human world, as humanity forgot about her. in comparison to that...

The girl flicked her tongue, tasting the cold air around her... and using it to gauge her position in the mountainous regions she was passing through. The humiliation, the pain, and the incredibly slow walking pace all left her seething with rage, and if she had the breath to spit, she would have.

Instead, the weary goddess took a drink from her water bottle, groaned at the trek she was taking, and kept her butt going. She wasn't completely sure where she wanted to go - she'd found a set of footprints, and decided to trail them as best she could. She wasn't going to get anywhere without moving, and she certainly wasn't going to get anywhere without a kill or two under her belt. It was time to get serious on this whole "murder-game", and so far it had been, to her utter embarassment, more of a couple rough brawls followed by a lot of hiking. And even the hiking would have been enjoyable were it not for the fact that her Leg still screamed in bloody murder for her to relax and get a bite to eat.

...Huh. Actually, that sounded pretty good at this point.

The little god quickly found herself a cave, Raised a portion of the earth to create a groove in the earth, then filled it with snow to create an area for her broken foot to sit and recuperate, clearing the earth with tiny spades as she made herself a spot to sit. Gulping down half a water bottle in one go, Suwako realized she might be able to get a fire going in this cave. this meant warm meals - it also meant a chance to refill her water bottles, if she managed things right.

"Might not be killing many people, but at least i have the 'eating and drinking' part down." Suwako quipped to herself. "Now let's just hope the rest of the contestants don't have that part figured out. Now then..."

Suwako looked into her pack to find the first MRE in the batch.
"....Stewed pork with.... Beef barley." Suwako read. a quiet grin fell over her. "well heck that sounds delicious! Karl knows how to feed his deathmatch contestants!" She exclaimed in glee, as she read through the instructions, setting up the mini-stove as she looked out to the distance, enjoying the scenery of the beautiful fortress of ice she saw in the distance.
 

Orion

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Ellie sat leaning against a thick tree, a bottle of water in her hands, her helmet in her lap. Running around like a lunatic felt great but the powered armour didn’t have much in the way of ventilation. Sweat clung to her face as the evening breeze rolled over her skin. She audibly sighed as she took another swig of her water.

The sun had set, but only just. The sky was a wonderful light velvet at the horizon, becoming darker blue and finally black further upwards, all in a gradient. A handful of stars dotted all around – more would soon follow as the island was plunged into darkness.

Draining the last of the water, Ellie threw the plastic bottle back in her bag – she should at least look after the environment while she was here – and fitted her helmet, clicking it into place. Almost a whole day had passed on the island and she still hadn’t encountered another living soul. So far this death tournament had been little more than a peaceful vista. She sighed contently, realising that this would likely be an impermanent feature of the contest, but she would take it in while she had the chance.

Still, she had to sleep at some point. Running around as she had had only worn her out. It seemed odd that she would even have to consider her safety on this island, but instinctively she knew it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

As Ellie walked through the trees, she finally heard something. Footsteps on the grass. This was it! Ellie’s heart pounded in her chest. She shot around a trunk, peering towards the source of the sound. How was she going to approach this? Without the Elorium Gauntlet, it would have to be old fashioned melee combat. Unless this power suit was strong enough to push over a tree? She drove her shoulder into a tree, but it didn’t budge. Nope. Melee combat it was.

She waited as the sound grew louder. It was difficult to tell in the twilight who was approaching, but it was definitely humanoid. Shorter than she imagined though, thin of build. Not a muscular mercenary or the like that she would have expected would sign up for this tournament. Then again, she did too, so why should she expect any different?
Ellie’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. The figure was covered in red. One of the arms was hanging in a makeshift sling, also spotted with blood. She looked young, too. Not even an adult. Maybe a teenage girl?

What on Earth was a teenage girl doing in the middle of this situation?

Conflicting thoughts ran through Ellie’s head. Could she brain a poor teenage girl with a suspected broken arm? Or was it just a ruse to draw out empathy in other opponents? Truly, Ellie wasn’t interested too much in killing, at least not until it was necessary. Plus it would feel really bad to take out an injured teenage girl. What to do?
Ellie decided. She would take the diplomatic approach first, and try not to let her concern for another human being cloud her judgement. If it was a diversion, well… she was wearing the super cool, hopefully functional power armour.

Now, how was she going to look inviting wearing this?
 

Jester Lavorre

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Despite the circumstances, Mugen slept fitfully.

He dreamed of a warehouse: its outside was nondescript, its inside was dimly lit.

A smoke filled room stuffed to bursting with sweaty, yelling patrons whose fists waved about in the air full to bursting with money.

In the center of it all, Mugen stood ringside. Worry lined his young face and aged him years. Though he was a tall, skinny beanpole of a man he scarcely came up to the second rung of arena rope.

Inside lumbered two behemoths: one, his billion credit baby, the Beetle; the other, an even larger beetle with mean looking mandibles and a crest that could inspire fear in even the most hardened coach.

The bell rung, and the titans lunged at one another. The thundering steps of the combatants shook the ring, while a cloying haze of cigarette smoke closed in around the beetles and cast the Sumo contestants in stark silhoutte. Mugen chewed his nails to stubs as they met, crests clashing ferociously. The Beetle (his baby, his heart) had found himself in trouble quickly, taking blow after blow from his opponent's herculean strikes. Luckily his armored torso deflected the worst of it.

Then...tragedy.

A glancing blow sent his Beetle spinning, and Mugen gaped in horror as his body fell, fell, fell...heading right for a stool turned on its side! Mugen scrambled to get to the stool in time reaching and clawing his way towards it, but no matter how he scrambled it wasn't getting any closer to him.

The Beetle's neck hit the stool and the sharp report filled the air - CRACK!

~


The ronin jolted awake close to midnight looking about frantically in the dark. When his eyes had adjusted, his heart hung in his throat; the Beetle lay motionless on the ground just a few feet away. Scrambling across his rocky platform in a panic, Mugen reached the Beetle and prodded it hysterically with his index finger.

It got up, scurried away grumpily, and then lay still.

Thank the Kami above! He could breathe! Mugen found himself in a cold sweat and moved to his pack where he retrieved a bottle of water to wash the stale taste from his mouth. Next, he looked to the sky to get his bearings and found that the moon hung practically directly above him. Must've been around midnight. How many hours of sleep had he just managed to squeeze in? Probably more than most of the contestants, he wagered.

Adjusting his ears, Mugen tuned in to the forest. The sound of water flowing below gave him pause, since it covered up so many other sounds, but he could've sworn that he had heard some sort of...screeching?

The quiet night breeze carried the sound back up to him again, confirming his suspicions. He was definitely downwind of some kind of bizarre noise. One he elected to investigate.

Gathering his possessions, but leaving his Beetle on the ledge (where, presumably, he'd be safe); Mugen began a hazardous descent towards the nearby river.

Down by the river he crawled on his hands and knees, careful to move slowly so as not to stir up too much noise, and wriggled his lanky body into some thick underbrush where he observed the scene playing out. Some man with a painted face and orange hair, significantly less handsome than himself, that seemed to be moving with a pronounced limp. Injured, looked to be. He was communing with a little goblin-esque critter who in turn was uttering some truly ghastly noises. From his vantage point, the ronin cringed when the creature chittered and then let out a fucking screech.

Choices, choices. The last injured man he'd found, Mugen had finished off with a rock. Echoes of the impact, the feeling of bone caving beneath his forceful strikes were still close at hand in his memory.

And yet, the memory of Karl Jak just hours ago denouncing the merits of teaming up with others was fresher. That announcement been valuable - he'd encountered just two teams, but a cautionary statement like that meant that many more had likely formed. The ronin had gone to great lengths to avoid finding his closest friend on this island...but a disposable stranger? That, perhaps, he could work with. And an injured one at that! An ugly injury seemed like pretty good betrayal deterrent. With that, Mugen made up his mind. He'd have to approach the situation delicately, lest he provoke attack.

The raven haired youth burst from the bushes, hands in the air, and shouted: "DON'T FUCKING ATTACK ME, I'M GOING TO STRIKE A DEAL WITH YOU!"

Both the painted man and his bizarre green underling nearly jumped out of their skins, having assumed themselves alone.

"Screamsicle!" the divine ruler intoned, leveling an accusatory finger at Mugen. "Att-"

"Don't attack!" Mugen interrupted, his hands still up in the universal gesture for 'don't attack me, damn it'. "I'm here to strike an alliance!"

Screamsicle...was that what that guy had called this thing? Fitting. Screamsicle looked to the ronin who stood before them with leaves and twigs in his shock of raven locks, and then looked to his master. The gears of his mind had clunked to a jarring halt.

"Seriously," the swordless samurai continued. "I've got a, um, thing, that tells me where everyone on the island is. And you're clearly hurt! ...I think we can strike up some kind of a deal."

Kefka's haughty and predatory gaze brought Mugen to a hault. Perhaps this had been a mistake? His own cautious, beady eyes met those of the...danger clown? Both men postured arrogantly, until finally, the length of the stand-off seemed to relax them both. It had become obvious that this was resulting in anti-climax.

"...you're trying to serve under me?" Kefka asked, sounding thoughtful.

"Well, not exact-"

"This might work in my favor," he continued without pausing. "You look..."

He surveyed Mugen, searching for words. The samurai's undershirt was threadbare with a giant plasma scorched hole in the center which gave a voyeuristic view of his char broiled chest. His arms and legs were bare past the elbows and knees, and had been excoriated by a series of damaging tumbles down hillsides and mountains.

"Alive," Kefka finished, raising an eyebrow. "And you can pinpoint the other contestants?"

The ronin fished around in his back and brought out his GPS, which he held aloft for inspection at the risk of invoking theft from a stranger. "Yeah. With this."

"Delightful!"
 
Last edited:

Victor Wolfe

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The desert sun blazed above Victor's head, the sounds of battle filling the air around him, the honey-sweet smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils as he stared down his opponent. The demon was a strong one, with his bone knife and revolver pistol at his side Victor knew he would need to use all of his skills to outfox this one.

Diving to the side into the window of a now empty house Victor dodged the bullets aimed his way, pressing the button on his belt. The demon, searching for his invisible opponent, stormed into the house, noticing an open door leading to the wine cellar. Cautiously approaching the possible hiding place of his opponent, Dean found himself heading towards the bottom much faster than planned when Victor's boot connected squarely with his back, sending him smashing into the wine racks, a mess of blood, glass and booze flooding the floor. Sealing the door Victor rushed to find out what had happened to his other companions.

Rushing out to the street he saw his psychic friend Erik Vrell standing up to another forgettable grunt that Law had decided to fill their ranks with. The fight was sure to turn in their favour as their newest recruit was ready to finish his opponent.

With a crash a nearby building was torn open, a large pigman charging through to gore his companion, such a dishonourable sneak attack ending his life in an instant as a tusk pierced his chest.

“NOOOOOOOO!” Victor screamed as he charged forward his hair sparking yellow as he rushed into battle, his superior speed and technical ability causing his blows to land true, and elbow to the gut finally bringing the pigman to his knees as Victor shoved a syringe into his neck, Ganondorf turning to dust before his eyes.

“Say hello to your mother for me” Victor smirked, venom lacing his words before snapping back to reality. Rushing over to his companion he shook the body. The only warmth left that from the sun on his pale skin.

“You have been avenged, my brother, may we meet again when you come back to us.” Victor wiped a tear from his eye as he used his fingers to close Eriks. His cute face almost looking like a sleeping baby, but with a gaping hole where its chest should be.

Rushing through the streets once again Victor headed for the square, to see his king and a robotic rodent locked in combat, the orange orbs hanging from the earrings apparently a powerful artefact allowing the power of two primes in one body. Despite this, it seemed that Gilgamesh had the upper hand. Some civilians had even stayed to cheer on their king in his battle against the largest threat they had ever faced.

Of course, realising that they may lose the battle against a superior foe, the murder bot turned its blaster towards a child in the crowd, the laser powering up as Gilgamesh dived in front of the blast.
Victor knew that he had to do something, rushing down to the square he started to shepherd the Nippurians to safety, planning to join the battle once everyone was out of harm's way. By the time he had turned again so had the battle. Gilgamesh despite having a hole in his armour was now staring down Mickey, a heroic speech so inspiring coming from his mouth causing Victor to blush.

But before he could get close enough to deal a finishing blow the terrorist used their last trick, a ball of sand smashed into the King's eyes and in the distraction, they fired up their banishment blaster. The King was gone. Nothing but dust left to fill the sand. And before he could once again seek vengeance Victor fell, six bullets piercing his back. New Babylon was gone, and all because of the scheming machinations of a robotic mouse, and a pink flying phallus.

----------------------

“And that is why Mickey Mouse needs to die!” Victor announced as he finished telling the story of the battle of Nippur to his new travelling companion.

“Ok did that all really happen?” She questioned sceptically.

“It was, shall we say, an artist's interpretation of events!” Victor grinned.
 

Solomon Grundy

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Vision was hard to maintain as he rocketed through the clouds, feeling his leg go numb and icy from the pain and the altitude. The mountain loomed in front of him, and he spotted a small rocky shelf jutting out from the slope. Through darkening vision, he aimed for it, and used the last bit of his consciousness to bring out The Hand to brace himself for the crash as blissful darkness took him.

It could have been hours or minutes, but Okuyasu still woke up in a significant amount of pain. Leaning against the rock, he looked down across the massive death island. The trees and rivers looked serene, although he knew out of his sight they were probably decorated with blood and viscera. He shuddered at the memory of the green monster thing that had chewed his leg. That was something truly terrifying. No Stand he'd faced had that kind of raw power.

The insistent pain shot through his leg again, and Okuyasu's brute force problem solving strategy happened upon it's usual answer to problems. Nearly without thinking, and probably mostly from frustration and blood loss, he swiped his hand just below the knee.

BMMMMMMM

Wincing, he expected pain. To his relief, and maybe to his benefit, he felt the blissful void of nothing. Looking down at his leg, Okuyasu could see The Hand had done it's job well. Instead of a mangled, useless leg, he now had a much less painful stump. Grumbling and trying to tie the rest of his ripped school top around it as a dressing, the flesh raw and welted but not spurting blood as before.

He couldn't help but smile at himself. "Oi Josuke! The Hand can heal wounds too!" He laughed into the clouds, tears leaking from his eyes. He desperately wanted to be back in Morioh, allowing himself a few minutes to let the desperation of the situation wash over him. Winning the lottery had been easier.

After wiping his eyes, he summoned The Hand again, only to realize that his Stand was now also missing the same leg below the knee. "Ah, crap." Okuyasu grumbled, hitting the jets on his now much more permanent method of conveyance. If he was going to "die" here, then he might as well do it fighting and not bleeding out on a mountain top.

His words echoed around the rocky scree as he took off. "I'm Okuyasu Goddamn Nijimura, and my Hand can do anythiiiiing!"
 
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